


Free & Jones

by orphan_account



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, F/M, Gen, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Minor Character Death, PTSD, Pen Pals, War Era, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-13 15:01:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/825648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loosely based on the claymation 'Mary and Max', Free & Jones follows the letters sent between two young men separated by an ocean but joined together by a war they both can only sit by and watch. While both think little of the letters sent between each other, they don't quite realize just how much they depend on them to continue on and get by each day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Free & Jones

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for any inaccuracies you may find. I tried my best to looking into the validity of everything I added but I'm not perfect.

28 February 1943

 

Dear Micheal,

You probably have no idea who I am or how I got your address, or even why I’m writing to you. God, I sound like a knob already and I’ve only just started this letter. I suppose I should start with the basics before going into more detail, shouldn’t I? I’ve never been particularly good at writing eloquently off the top of my head and tend to ramble on about whatever thoughts happen to be begging my attention.

Shit, sorry. 

I was meaning to introduce myself there. My name is Gavin Free and I live in the county of Oxfordshire which is right in the center of England. I’ve lived here all my life, aside from the few years I lived in London with my best mate, Dan. It wasn’t that we couldn’t afford to live in the city that I moved back home but more because he left me. 

I mean, he left me to fight for Queen and country but I can’t help but feel abandoned. I could have gone with him. I could be out there on the battlefields in the mud and trenches, trying to get us both home faster. But I can’t. 

I think he views me as a coward now, but he wasn’t there in the street when the sirens wailed and London was set on fire. The things I saw plague my dreams and haunt my mind.

I buried Dan in my dreams last night.

I never really had a favorite food or a favorite color. It always feels so definite when someone asks you what your favorite of something is. I think they try to form some sort of judgmental opinion on you based on your answers and I don’t want anybody to perceive me the wrong way. What if one day I decide that instead of blue that I like green instead? Have I changed in their eyes or should I let them go on believing that I am an unconditional lover of blue? Is that the polite thing to do?

Reading back on what I’ve already written, I seem to be coming off as quite the nutter and if it weren’t for the inconvenience of the typewriter and how expensive the ink is in this time of war, I’d start again. I’d polish every single word I write and try and come off as someone I’m not; someone I can get up in the morning and bear to look at in the mirror.

And before you or whoever reads this (fingers crossed) suggests I use a bloody pencil like any sane person, I’m not going to let a perfectly good typewriter go to waste. Did I mention why I’d been in London in the first pla—No. See, I really should stop and re-read what I’ve written before continuing on to the next line but—you know. 

I’m an aspiring filmmaker and Dan, my above-mentioned best friend, was pursuing this dream with me as a writer. If you haven’t put it together, this is his typewriter. If I break it, don’t mention it in any letters, yeah? I don’t need him reading about the truth in your letters if does happen come home to a missing typewriter.

Oh, and I send me letters. I’d appreciate it, buddy. 

Right, sorry-- As I was saying, I’ve always dreamed of making my own films some day. We were lucky enough to have a small cinema near where I grew up and I’d often frequent it. You’d be surprised how many American films I’ve seen, though I can’t say I’ve been back recently. Its not that we don’t get them anymore, but they seem to be littered with enough war propaganda to cause every able-bodied youth to float on hot air straight from their seats at the cinema to the enlistment desk. 

Don’t get me wrong, I think that they provide morale for everyday people in this time of desperation and give others a reason to get up in the morning, but I’ve been in the heart of it. I know every twist, tweak, and angle filmmakers try to exploit. And all I see is trash… You see, when two young boys leave home to come to London with dreams like ours, they’re bound to end up right in the mix of cheaply and quickly made propaganda. 

I can’t tell you how many times I found myself behind the camera, watching as actors play this war up as a some sort of dignified venture with proud speeches of encouragement and passion. 

I often wonder if Dan bewitched himself with his own written word…

It paid rent and I’ve been saving for as long as I can remember for that one-way plane ticket to Hollywood and try my hand there. That was always the end goal for me.

How close is New Jersey to Hollywood? To be honest, I hadn’t ever heard of New Jersey until your friend Geoff gave me your address. I’ve been told its near New York, something I’ve definitely heard of, but also can’t pinpoint on a map. And I suppose I should have mentioned that I met your soldier friend Geoff Ramsey. 

I met him in a pub about a week ago and he rather forcefully invited me to join him for a few pints. I didn’t know the guy but judging by the amount of alcohol he and his soldier buddies had already run through, he might have thought he knew me. At the very least and to be fair, we know quite a bit about each other now. 

He really loves his wife. He wouldn’t stop going on about Griffon? Griffin? Griffen? I don’t think I was able to catch the spelling, forgive me. I think he misses her. Every time any girl would walk past the table or pin-up would pass around the table, he’d go on and on about how much more beautiful she was. How if she were the one fighting in his place, the war would be over and done with. That Hitler would piss himself the moment she walked through the door. 

I reckon he may have played up her ferocity a bit but it was still inspiring. If I remember correctly, it wasn’t long after they got married that the draft started, right? How he can stay so optimistic is beyond me, but I’ve yet to meet the glum American. 

…

You’re probably wondering how this all comes back to me writing you.

To be honest, and blunt: I’m lonely. And I hear you might be as well.

He didn’t say much about you but he did mention something about me remind him of you. Something about both of use being bitter and vindictive about the war. My words. He wasn’t making much sense by the time conversation slipping from him to me.

There is no one I can really talk to anymore about these things, besides my family, and even my brother’s gone to fight. I don’t expect you to cling to this penpal idea, but it’s at least settling to me knowing that once I stamp and post this letter, it may be read by someone. Anyone.

It’s nice to imagine someone stopping just for me, as selfish as that sounds.

Hoping to hear back from you, Micheal.

Stay safe.

 

Gavin


End file.
